


learn to love (yourself)

by cedarmoons



Series: can't sleep love [1]
Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Enthusiastic Consent, Gender-Neutral Apprentice (The Arcana), Intensely Requited Love, Kinktober 2018, Light Bondage, Other, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-27 16:55:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16223354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cedarmoons/pseuds/cedarmoons
Summary: You know how he acts when he is complimented: he laughs, and flushes a very pretty red; his gaze slides away to some distraction across the room; he clears his throat and changes the subject. But your love is a waterfall, relentless, and you want him todrownin it.





	learn to love (yourself)

**Author's Note:**

> written for kinktober 2018, prompt "praise kink" which is one of my FAVES. thought i'd share the love over here. you can find more on my [tumblr](http://www.cedarmoons.tumblr.com). it's tender lovin' asra hours, folks! (˵ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°˵)
> 
> note: mc is completely gender neutral for maximum asra lovin'.

You know how he acts when he is complimented: he laughs, and flushes a very pretty red; his gaze slides away to some distraction across the room; he clears his throat and changes the subject. He doesn’t savor your sincerity, your praise. (Worse, he doesn’t believe it.)

“Don’t you know how beautiful you are, Asra?” you’d asked him, once, with his arms around you and his toes against your shins. He had laughed and buried his face in your shoulder to hide his blush.

“I know how beautiful  _you_  are,” he’d said, then cleared his throat and changed the subject.

He faults himself for your first death,  _despises_  himself for it, and that lingering self-hatred had calcified his heart, turned it into something sharp and jagged that only softened for select individuals, yourself chief among those chosen few. 

Tonight, you won’t let him hate himself. You’ll show him how dear he is to you—you’ll set him down on your sheets and love him right—you’ll whisper praise against the column of his throat, the corner of his mouth, whisper it above the beat of his heart and into the soft skin of the crook of his elbow. You’ll write _cherished_ with the pads of your fingers, and paint  _adored_  with the brush of your mouth.

You’ll soften him; you’ll help him learn to love himself as much as you love him.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Asra asks, around a mouthful of spicy noodles. He grins as he slurps the noodle, sucking it between his teeth, and you smile back at him, wide and warm and fond.

“I want to tie you up tonight,” you say.

Asra nearly chokes on his noodles, eyes widening, but he catches himself and soon recovers. Deftly, he turns his surprise into sultriness; he lowers his lids as he watches you, and a thrill of heat runs through you at the curl of his lips, both sensuous and teasing.

“Oh?” he asks. “D’you have some…  _mischief_  in mind?”

First things first. “Just your wrists to the headboard, though. Are you interested?”

“Oh, very. What’re your plans tonight? Am I gonna be at your mercy? Are you gonna fuck me?” His smirk deepens, and you can’t help yourself, not when he’s looking at you like  _that._  When you reach under the table to place a hand atop his thigh, his legs spread for you at once, opening him to your touch. He leans forward, nose brushing against your cheek as he sighs. “Mm, I’d like that a lot.”

You slide your hand up his thigh as you turn your head to kiss him, and you smile when you feel him against your palm, already half-hard. Asra groans into the kiss, hips lifting lightly into your hand, but you keep your touch light.

“We’re still on lunch break,” you murmur, breaking the kiss for just a moment.

“We don’t have to re-open,” Asra says, before his hand cups your cheek and he kisses you again. He’s always hungry for you, ravenous, even, and his eagerness makes your laugh rumble up through your chest. You pull away and kiss his forehead to ease his pout, then move to clean up the dishes.

“I’m gonna be thinking about this all day now,” Asra says behind you. You can hear his complaint, hidden barely-there in the lowness of his voice, a plaintive attempt to get you to change your mind. You look at him over your shoulder, grinning.

“Good,” you say. “I want you thinking about it.”

He shivers, and his flush deepens. He laughs and looks away, then stands and helps you clean up lunch without another word.

*

That night, Asra is the first one on the bed, naked and watching you with an eagerness masked by his knowing smile. You pick his softest scarf and wind it around his wrists as you straddle his thighs, ignoring his half-hard cock within your easy reach. You keep yourself focused as you loop the scarf through the circle carved into the middle of the headboard, as Asra watches you and gnaws at his lower lip.

You sit back to admire your handiwork, sliding a finger under the scarf wound around his wrists to make sure there’s room. “All right?” you ask, and he draws his legs up, so that you can rest yourself against his thighs, straddling his lower stomach and hips. You laugh and oblige him, settling your weight over him, and reach out to cup his cheek in the palm of your hand. “Asra?”

“I’m perfect,” he purrs.

“Yes, you are,” you say, with a smile. His eyes widen, and he swallows, taken aback. You stroke his cheek, smile softening as you regard him, bathed in warm gas lamp light. “You are perfect, Asra. You’re  _stunning._ ”

He laughs, color rising to his cheeks and flushing his ears—a beautiful, beautiful red; you’d spend an eternity memorizing the exact shade of his blush if you could—as his head turns away, toward the far corner of the room. His body has tensed, his aura bleeding the beginnings of uncertainty, as he always gets when you praise him. 

That won’t do. You won’t let him flounder, and inevitably turn toward insecurity and dismissal. Not this time. He deserves better, and you will always give him what he deserves.

You cluck your tongue and undress, climbing back onto the bed. When you’re settled, you press two fingers under his chin. You lean forward, slowly rocking against him as you do—and he groans, eyes fluttering shut for a moment as he feels your arousal against his own.

“Will you look at me?” you ask.

He’s trembling, slightly, but he obeys. You reward him with another kiss, gentle and slow, until the tension bleeds out of him and he sags against the headboard, eyes closed as his lips move against yours in a slow, repeating cycle of opening, and closing, and warmth.

When you pull away, you rest your forehead against his temple, the bridge of your nose pressed to his cheek. You can hear how shallowly he’s breathing, can feel him hard between your thighs. You kiss his cheek and reach down, rubbing against him for a moment—enjoying the pleasure of friction—before pulling away, reaching for the oil on the nightstand nearby. Once you’ve smoothed oil over your palm, you settle back over him and take his length in hand.

 _“Ah,”_ Asra gasps, quietly, jaw working in silence as his head tips back.

You run your thumb over the head of him, keeping your touch steady and consistent, and Asra trembles. You brush back his impossibly soft hair and kiss the shell of his red ear, your heart tight within your chest, full to bursting. He is yours, all yours, your tender, beautiful love.

“You’re incredible, Asra,” you tell him, beginning to work him over in long, slow, dragging pumps of your fist. He groans, a shiver running through him, and his cock pulses in your hand.

“No—” he starts, but throws his head back as you reach his tip and squeeze gently.  _“Hngh—”_

You halt your hand, and he whines, biting his lip. “No, you’re not incredible?” you ask. “Or no, as in you want me to stop?”

“Don’t stop,” he pleads. Nodding, you kiss his temple and resume your hand movements, using the speed and pressure you know he likes. Asra swallows, and you kiss the bob of his throat.

“You’re incredible,” you say again, and Asra’s eyes flutter shut. You lean back, keeping your movements deliberate and slow, watching him. “Don’t you think so, Asra? Don’t you think you’re amazing?”

“No,” he says again, choking on his denial. His arms are tense around his head; he pulls at the scarf, hiding his face against his bicep. He can close his eyes, but not his ears. 

You shift back and lean down to kiss the jumping muscles underneath his soft stomach, then drag your lips and tongue up his body in a wet line of kisses and caresses, until your tongue circles his nipple while your finger circles and pinches the other. He cries out at the dual sensations, body arching in a sinuous arc toward your mouth. His blush has spread from his cheeks and ears, down his neck, to stain the golden-brown skin of his sternum; beneath your lips, you can feel his heart racing.

“Do you know how much you’ve helped this city?” you ask him, squeezing the head of him, making him stutter out a harsh, breathless curse. “You’ve helped the sick, and delivered babies when people couldn’t afford doctors—I’ve watched you buy food for the orphans, I’ve seen you bring groceries to old women’s homes when they weren’t able to go out—and if people can’t afford our wares you give it to them for free. Asra, you’re  _kind_ , you’re kind in a cruel, hard city, and that’s what I love most about you—”

 _“Ahh, h-ha—”_ he gasps, and for some reason it sounds protesting. But he doesn’t elaborate, pressing his face against his arm instead, never looking at you once.

“Don’t you agree?” you ask, and he trembles, avoiding your gaze, his blush staining his cheeks. You swipe your thumb over the head of his cock, pulling down the foreskin and rubbing circles into the sensitive underside before tracing the vein that runs down his length, over and over, until Asra’s mouth drops open as he gasps and he is bucking his hips, trying to get more touch. 

You reach out with your other hand, threading your fingers through his hair and pulling his head back, gently, making him look at you.

“Then let me tell you—you’re  _clever_ , Asra, cleverer than Death herself, finding a way to outsmart Lucio to bring me back. No magician’s ever done that before, but  _you_  did. And if that isn’t  _incredible_ , if that isn’t the most wonderful, brilliant thing—”

He whines, lower lip caught between his teeth, eyes locked on your face. You lean down to kiss him as your hand works him over, and he moans when you kiss his mouth open, gently coaxing him with lips and tongue.

When the kiss breaks, you’re both breathing hard; you rest your forehead against his, and you tell him, “You amaze me every day, love.”

He shudders, bucking into your tight fist, cock red and leaking in your grasp. You exhale, and straddle his hips again, pressing down against his cock, grinding your bodies together. Sweat runs in a lone rivulet down your back. Asra’s head jerks, nearly hitting the headboard, but your palm—still cradling the back of his head—cushions him from any impact.

“Open your eyes,” you whisper. “I want you to look at me when I’m fucking you.”

He moans, eyes sliding open, dark purple in the moonlight. You brush his sweat-plastered hair out of his eyes and smile at him. “Stunning,” you say, and he shivers, hips lifting in a silent overture, body begging to be touched.

“Please,” he chokes out, ragged. He lowers his eyes, avoiding your gaze, trembling when you tilt his chin toward you. “I…”

You grind against him, a slow, steady glide, and and  _oh,_ isn’t that friction  _delicious—_ a shiver runs up your spine, making you shudder. Asra’s moan is low, one of helpless pleasure, and he lifts his hips to chase your movements, his lip snagged between his teeth. His eyes squeeze shut as you begin to move faster, his head falling back to rest against the headboard.

“Eyes on me, beautiful,” you remind him, your own breaths hitching at the friction. “Fuck, Asra, you feel so good—so good for me—you’re perfect, just what I need,  _perfect—”_

Asra whines. You reach out to clasp his bound hands, your fingers intertwining with his, and you lean forward to bite down on his neck, feeling his breaths puff hotly over your skin. When he tilts his head back, freely offering his throat, you murmur  _good_  into his skin and smile at the hitch in his breath. You suck a hickey into his skin, enjoying how he squirms and pants beneath you, his cock pulsing against your body. 

“You like that?” you murmur. He whimpers, his hair brushing your cheek as he nods frantically. “You should see how beautiful you look, Asra, I could spend all day marking you up. You— _hah_ —you’re so good—”

Asra’s hands are trembling in your grasp, fingers curled tightly over yours. “Plea- _please_ ,” he stutters. “Please—say it again—”

“You’re so  _good_ for me,” you say again, and he shudders under your touch. You squeeze his bound hands, pulling your head back to meet his gaze. He isn’t bashful anymore, hiding his face against his arm; he’s looking up at you, adoration naked in his eyes, mixed with some tentative hope, some quiet emotion you can’t name—you grind down harder, and the pleasure makes stars burst between your eyes, makes heat tighten in your core, makes your abdomen clench and your back bow.

“Fuck,” you murmur, “fuck, Asra, you’re so beautiful—giving your heart up for me, outsmarting Death herself, you’re  _incredible_ , I’ve never known anyone as selfless—”

“Selfish,” he protests, but weakly. “I—I missed you too much to let you go—”  

“Selfless,” you correct him, moving your body to straddle him, one leg slung over his hip and the other wedged underneath his thigh, leaving you plenty of room to grind against him. As you work yourself against him, your breath hitches higher, and higher, and you feel his length pulse against you, feel his thighs shaking under your hands. “You gave—gave me a second,  _hah,_  gave  _us_  a second chance, and I’m so glad you did, Asra, I’m so glad you’re letting me love you again, I love you, I’m close—”

“Love you,” Asra pants, “love you— _ha-ah—”_

You stop yourself through sheer force of will, trembling with the effort of holding off your orgasm, and Asra’s protest is  _loud_ , whining, as he bucks in a vain attempt to get more friction between you two, as he begs with vowelless pleas and sinuous, arching twists of his body. 

After a moment to savor your pleasure, you remaster yourself and climb off of him. He calls your name as you rise up, on the verge of desperation, and whines a wordless protest as you kneel beside him. You run a hand up his body, from the thatch of white curls to the column of his throat, hushing him gently. He whimpers and turns into your touch, watching you under the lace of white lashes.

“Why’d you stop?” he asks, plaintive.

He usually never finishes before you do—he enjoys the sight of your pleasure too much—but today, you think, you’ll turn the tables on him. With a smile, you lean forward, and murmur, “I want to watch you come for me, Asra. You’re so beautiful when you come.”

His pupils dilate at your words, nearly swallowing his irises. You kiss him, and as you do—as he surges up to meet you, opening his mouth eagerly for your tongue  _(mine,_  you think,  _my beautiful Asra)—_ you reach down and take hold of his cock, slippery with his own precome and the oil. He breaks the kiss with a gasp, eyes screwing shut, and you tsk.

“Look at me, love,” you tell him, and he obeys, body stiffening. You shower him with praise, with compliments  _(look at you, you’re beautiful, every part of you, you take my breath away every day, you’re wonderful, so good to me, you’re so pretty when you blush, look at you)_ , and you mean every word.

Your love falls from your mouth, a relentless waterfall, and you want him to  _drown_.

Your name spills past his lips, a frantic, desperate chant, as his hips lift to meet every downward pump of your hand. His eyes are locked with yours, and you thumb his kiss-swollen lower lip, smiling when he kisses the pad of your thumb.

“Wish you could see yourself,” you murmur to him, increasing the pace of your hand, making his back bow, his body shake. His head fall back as he cries out and fucks the tunnel your hand provides. “You’re so beautiful like this, Asra. I could watch you all day—you’re ready, aren’t you? Gonna be good and come for me?”

He nods, quivering, and you give him what he needs. When he comes, it is to your hushed whisper of  _incredible_ , and you watch his body spasm as he spills and calls out your name, your hand working him over until you’ve coaxed him of everything he can give you. He’s left boneless on the mattress, red from his ears to his chest, and you lean down to drag your tongue over his twitching body, lapping up every stripe of his release.

“Perfect,” you declare, looking up, and though Asra does not nod in agreement—he smiles.


End file.
